


don’t be aroused by my confession (unless you don’t give a good goddamn about redemption)

by mirrorfade



Series: the reaper grins [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Hatesex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorfade/pseuds/mirrorfade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hatred makes strange bedfellows. Aggressive!Hawke sides with Sister Petrice. Kirkwall feels this is a bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don’t be aroused by my confession (unless you don’t give a good goddamn about redemption)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Puscifer’s _Rev 22:20_. Remember how you can decide to save Petrice in Act II? Well, a certain Hawke took her up on that. I felt like exploring some of the reasons why. Takes place before Sister Petrice becomes Mother Petrice. TW for violence, swearing, rough sex, classism, racism, and cannibalism. Also for crackships and hatesex between two awful people.

The first time it happens, Petrice wakes up from a nightmare only to find another one staring at her. Dark eyes light up her chambers and there’s a mabari sitting on her knees. Pinning her in place.

Petrice, never one to panic, promptly shrieks for the Maker. 

“Shut up, woman. I didn’t come to kill you,” Hawke rumbles from the shadows. Her armor scrapes against the walls. 

Now that she’s awake, Petrice can smell blood and armor polish, an acidic sort of thing that nearly overpowers the perfume of bronze and candle wax. She has been a Sister for nearly all her life. It is not her place to think of armor and weapons, but here is Hawke, sitting across from her bed with a candle in one hand. “What are you _doing_?” she hisses. Then: “How did you get in here?”

Hawke does not smile. She lifts the candle up to her face, so that the heavy lines on her skin will show all the stronger. It’s strange that someone like Hawke has no scars at all. Only the primitive marks of age, and something burning inside her. Hawke looks much older than she ought to. 

Hawke, as people say, was never going to age well. 

“One of those qunari tried to put a friend of mine in chains,” Hawke says, ever so softly. “I think they’re going to die for that. We want similar things, big sister.”

 _Big Sister!_ The nerve. Petrice scowls, but does not bare her teeth in a snarl. She’s not an animal. She lifts her chin and tries her best to look dignified wearing nothing but a nightshift. “My _cause_ is righteous, you—”

“Shhhh,” Hawke says. “I could kill you. I still might feel like it.”

There are Templars within shouting distance. If she screamed, then Petrice knows they would come. Indeed, they would come just in time to clap Hawke in irons after she’d finished cutting Petrice’s head off at the neck. 

The Maker says there is a time for patience and wisdom. Sometimes the best thing to do is reflect in silence. 

“Think about it,” Hawke says, and blows out the candle. She whistles to the dog. “I’ll come see you soon. Big Sister. Try not to die before then.”

**

The next morning, Sister Petrice finds her room covered in mabari fur and a dagger stuck into her bedpost. She has the Templars sweep several rooms and forgotten passageways, but it amounts to nothing. A heathen scoundrel has breached the Maker’s house, and no one can tell her how. She shames her guards thoroughly and makes them pray for forgiveness. 

Even that gets her no results. Idiots. 

Sister Petrice considers for a moment that she might be slightly outclassed, before remembering that she has the Maker on her side. Andraste’s devote are always rewarded for their work. And it’s well known by now that Hawke, scion of an old family, is a heretic and a murderer. The only thing keeping her out of the executioner’s reach is the influence of certain friends, and that odd charm of hers. 

Blood magic is suspected, but unproven. It is known that she has dealing with those inside the qunari compound, just as it also known that Hawke has killed a score of the horned beasts out on the Wounded Coast. For no particular reason, it seems, except that they were there and she felt like cutting their heads off. 

There is potential there. And of course, Petrice has the Maker on her side. 

**

Unfortunately, Hawke has something else. A mabari, for instance. 

Petrice finds herself staring up at the dog’s drooling maw. This is the second time that Hawke has caught her in her nightshift. 

“Nice tits,” Hawke rumbles, setting the candle down on Petrice’s desk. 

Sputtering, Petrice covers herself as best she can. The mabari is staring at her. And drooling all over her sheets. Filthy mongrel. “What are you _doing_? You are a disgusting person.”

Hawke bares teeth that have seen better days. Many of Petrice’s informants and their wider circles of friends claim that Hawke is a beautiful woman, but this is simply not true. Hawke is an ogre with a woman’s face, blunt and suited only for armor. Dark hair has mattered around her face in clumps, and she smells like the sewers Petrice first met her in. “Thought about it, little sister? You’ve been nosing around. Without me. I feel left out.”

Hawke leans forward. “I don’t like that.”

The dog growls. 

Oh dear. 

Petrice swallows. “The Maker favors the prepared…”

“Your Maker’s a bloody fool,” Hawke snaps. “Preach to me and I’ll hurt you, sister, do you understand?”

Fucking heretic. But pride is one thing and survival is another. Petrice has things she must do. And so she bows her head and does not hiss. Her voice is very calm. Smooth as silk, it is. “What is it you want, Mistress Hawke?”

Hawke smiles at that. Her teeth are crooked. Cracked. Some of them shine of gold. “You’re going to stop preaching against mages.”

Wait, what? Petrice stares at her. 

Hawke keeps on smiling. She rests a hand on her armored knee. “And I’ll give you a qunari head for every spy you find me in the Circle. Does that please you?”

As if this were a _negotiation_. Petrice grits her teeth. “What is it you really want, Hawke?”

Everyone knows the sort of person that Hawke is, if they even think to look beneath the gossip. Someone like that wouldn’t need a reason to kill qunari. Someone like that would take a sword to the Divine if only they could get close enough. 

The mabari rests his head on Petrice’s knee. Just watching her. 

Hawke stops smiling. “Why don’t you think about that, sister? I’ll be back.”

“Don’t come _here_!” Petrice hisses in alarm. Someone could see. Dear Maker. Someone will definitely see, and that will take all her cunning to explain away. _Especially_ with Hawke’s reputation. “I…I will meet you. At your home.”

There, that’s a good excuse. One must always preach to the nobility, so that they might lead a better example for the common folk and all the members of their household. Somehow, Hawke has become something like respectable.

Hawke doesn’t quite laugh at that. Her armor shivers a little like she’s thinking about it. “Brave sister. I’ll make you dinner. Something… _rich_.”

“Please go away now,” Petrice tells her, as calmly as she can. “You smell. And your mabari is shedding on me.”

“Tell the guards you had a lover,” Hawke suggests. “Someone _tall_. They might think you’re interesting then.”

Hawke and the mabari are gone before Petrice can stop sputtering long enough to throw something at them. 

**

It doesn’t take much to find a spy in the Circle of Magi, and less than a day to discover where Hawke’s sister resides. Who her friends are. How she did on her Harrowing. All the things the Templars know. What sorts of students she’s given and how she gets along with her fellow mages. It is not, however, enough to determine how many people Hawke has bribed or threatened into protecting Bethany. 

Big sister. Hmph. 

Petrice dresses in her best robes, because appearance is one of the few things she has that Hawke does not. At least _she_ can look respectable walking through Hightown, instead of like the worst of the Dog Lords. Hawke was much more at home in the mud and filth of Lowtown, dug in tight with all the Maker’s unfortunates. 

The mansion in High Town does not suit Hawke at all. Oh no. The carpets are made of the finest silk, and the dreaded mabari sits on a velvet cushion by the fire. It’s harness and collar are studded with gleaming rubies and what might very well be dragon claws. The dog eyes her from his basket, but does not sit up. Instead he goes back to his bone, which is still bloody and covered in red muscle. 

It looks a tad long to have come from a deer, Petrice thinks. 

The dwarf leads her to the kitchen, where Hawke is stirring things into a large stew pot. The counter and most of the walls are splattered with a suspiciously red substance. 

“Your mother has a lovely home,” Petrice offers stiffly. 

“It was taken by slavers,” Hawke informs. “My sister and I killed all of them.”

“I suppose your mother was very proud of that.”

Hawke grunts. “Sit down, woman. Don’t wear that robe next time.”

Petrice glances down at the symbol of Andraste emblazed on her chest. “And what else am I supposed to wear?”

It’s not like she owns anything else. 

Hawke dips a spoon into the pot to taste, then promptly spits it out. “Your shift was nice.”

Petrice feels her face burning. “That’s hardly appropriate, Mistress Hawke.”

“Mistress,” Hawke muses. “I could get used to that. You know, the whores say they never see you at the Rose. Which is a shame. You meet all sorts down there. It’s not like the sisters never get nasty. We all know what your kind is like.”

“You,” Petrice says, as calmly as she can, “are a disgusting heretic.”

Hawke chuckles. “But a heretic you might need. Shall we?”

**

They plot. Several things are decided. 

The soup, Petrice finds, is much richer than she expected. Something with beef and sage, and a bittersweet tang underneath it all. Like metal. Or blood. 

**

The next night, Petrice wakes up to find a candle burning, and a bottle of wine resting on her desk. There is no one in the room, but Petrice swears she can smell dog and mud. The stench of Fereldan. 

Her sermons are especially fevered that day. 

**

Hawke kills her a few qunari and leaves their horns in one of Petrice’s hidden sanctuaries. All wrapped up in butcher paper, bleeding into the mud. An advance, Hawke calls it. This is another word for warning. 

Petrice finds her two spies. It almost feels like enough. 

**

Hawke finds her in the confession booth one day, dressed in a long skirt and a shirt with holes in it. Red and blue, all covered in beads. The style of dog lords, minus the armor, and it shows off Hawke’s rather impressive bosom. Petrice feels her face burning and does not want to think about why. “Come to beg forgiveness, have you?”

“Oh sister,” Hawke murmurs, eyes dark and watchful. “I’ve been a bad woman.”

“Do you want mercy?”

Hawke smiles at her, toying with the hem of her long skirt. There are paw prints on it, and Petrice can see a few places where the beads have been torn off, the hem ripped and repaired with clumsy hands. “We’re all fucking sinners, big sister. How was the wine?”

“I gave it to the penitent,” Petrice tells her stiffly. “To help them forget their misery.”

Sometimes, when the Revered Mother is not looking, Petrice can be kind in the way of common men. She was one of them once. Lost her parents to raiders and the rest of her family to the Maker’s whims. One day she will meet them again, and they will be proud of all she has done in the Maker’s name. 

“Oh.” Hawke flicks one of the beads into her cleavage. She has freckles there. “Lucky them.”

“Are you here for a _reason_?”

The presence of a heretic in the chantry offends the Maker and all his devote. 

Hawke smacks her lips together. “You don’t get out much, do you, sister?”

What sort of a question is that? Petrice huffs. “I am a _sister_ of the Chantry, Hawke. We do not _go out_ and sin in the streets.”

Like some people she could mention. 

“Of course you do,” Hawke murmurs. “Big sister. You should visit my house, you know. I’ll make you dinner. You liked the stew last time, didn’t you?”

“It was fine,” Patrice answers carefully, wondering where the trap is. “I didn’t think someone like you cooked.”

“I don’t,” Hawke says coolly. “I only wanted to see if you’d sin like the rest of us. Big sister.” She claps her hands together, and bows. Her cleavage nearly slips free of her clothes, beads clacking against each other. “I think you’ll come tonight. I might even fuck you, if you ask.”

“You _heathen_!”

There are no words for the rage Patrice feels boiling under her skin, for the burn in her face and the way her hands shake. She clenches them into fists, and grips her robes so tight she fears they could tear. “You…you are disgusting. Maker strike you down!”

No better than the qunari, that woman. She’ll burn before the Maker’s judgment. Petrice makes an oath right there that she will see it done. 

Hawke only grins at her with gold teeth. “You say that. But you’ll come. Won’t you, big sister? Because this heathen is the only one that’s going to grab your tits without gold. And we all know it’s a sin to pay a whore.”

Petrice slaps her hard. It hurts her hand more than it appears to hurt Hawke, who only laughs. “Fire, big sister. I like that. You know where I live.”

**

I am going to shame her, Petrice thinks when she knocks on Hawke’s front door. I am going to lecture that heathen and find that place in her soul that is still decent and capable of feeling the Maker’s love, and then beat her with it. Some souls are worth saving, but those souls generally belong to qunari. Despite her build, Hawke doesn’t appear to be one of them. So there is still some hope. The Maker might yet forgive her filthy soul. 

It is the duty of the Chantry to search through the muck for that little shard of hope.

Petrice’s hand still aches where she slapped Hawke, but part of it felt good. Maybe she’ll do that again. Slap the sin out of her. 

The dwarf opens the door, glancing up at her. “Oh, hello Sister. Mistress Hawke said someone might be coming.”

Petrice stands up as tall as she can, smoothing the wrinkles out of her robes. “Where is she?”

“In the yard, Sister. Follow me, please.”

Patrice steps inside, eyeing the mabari on his velvet cushion, and an elven woman playing the lute next to him. “Do you know what kind of a woman your mistress is?”

“We live in strange times, Sister,” the dwarf says instead of answering. “This way.”

Hawke is out in one of the courtyards, clearly still recovering from its time served as a slaver den. The walls are crumbling and covered in splotches of ugly paint in too many colors to name, all of them faded and cracking. Weeds grow through cracks in the flagstones. Petrice steps carefully, curling her lip at a protruding bone. 

In the middle of what used to be a courtyard, right next to the shell of broken fountain, Hawke is killing a practice dummy. She wears the same long skirt as before, and nothing at all about the waist. The greatsword she wields hisses through the air, and Hawke does not look so much like a mercenary or heathen as she does a dancer. She leaps and twirls barefoot through the weeds, sword lifted high about her head. The muscles of her belly clench, breasts heaving, and Petrice finds herself looking very intently at the broken walls. There was a mural there once, she thinks. 

The dwarf, apparently used to this, clears his throat. “Your guest is here, Mistress Hawke. Shall I bring wine?”

Hawke lowers the sword, wiping sweat off her face. “Do that. Then go away.”

“As you say, Mistress.”

He nods instead of bowing, and walks away. 

Hawke rests the sword against the fountain, and rubs her hands off on her skirt. The beads jingle a little. There are several scars across Hawke’s belly. She is not a small woman, either, thick in the way that many of the Templars are – which is to say heavy, wrapped in muscle and solidness. She looks like she could stand against an army, which is exactly what the stories claim. 

In her head, Petrice says a very nasty thing. Blasphemy. She’ll repent for that later. 

“Have you come to cleanse me of my sins?” Hawke asks, hips swaying as she walks up to Petrice. Bare feet scrape against the broken ground. Petrice wonders how Hawke has managed not to cut herself, how she keeps her breasts from getting in the way when she trains; they are not _small_ —

No. She is not thinking about this. 

“I—” Petrice swallows. 

Hawke is watching her. Intently. 

“Wine, Mistress Hawke.”

Oh, the dwarf. Petrice takes a quick step backward, nearly tripping as Hawke’s manservant leaves a bottle and two glasses by the door. No tray, though. Are they meant to bring the dishes in themselves? Clean it up like lower-class women? Petrice feels her lip curl. 

It is much safer to feel disgust than to look at Hawke. 

“Thanks,” Hawke says, sounding bored. “Now go away.”

The dwarf sighs, long-suffering rather than annoyed, and does just that. 

Hawke pulls the cork out with her teeth and spits it out. She lifts the bottle and inhales deeply, watching Petrice all the while. “C’mon, sister. Come down and drink with the sinners.”

She takes a seat on the ground by the fountain. Close to her sword, Petrice notes. Just in case. 

Of course. This is business as much as anything else. 

It is much easier to think of it that way. 

Petrice lifts her skirts carefully, and sits down next to Hawke. Towering over the woman only makes it easier to stare at her breasts, and Petrice does not feel this is the best way to start a lecture. Fire and blasphemy. Terrible sins and the things they beget. She practiced earlier in front of statue of Andraste. And now, watching Hawke drink, half naked and covered in sweat, Petrice finds she cannot remember the proper words. 

There were lots of words. She _practiced_.

Fuck. 

It is not supposed to go this way. Petrice is supposed to be in control. She has always been good at speaking, at making people listen. This was always her gift, Maker-given, and her calling in life. To speak, spread the good word and more than anything, make people _listen_.

Hawke, damn her, is smiling as she drinks wine straight from the bottle. 

“Come take a drink,” Hawke murmurs. “Big sister. Ohhhhh.” She shivers, cupping a breast with one hand. “And take that fucking robe off. It offends me.”

That, at least, Petrice has something to say about. “You are blasphemer and ought to be burned, Hawke. I hop you know that. I hope it gives you _comfort_ in your filthy existence.”

Hawke takes a long drink of wine, tipping her head back to expose her throat. “Fucking chantry sisters gives me comfort on cold nights, _Petrice_.”

Sinners, the lot of them. Filthy sinners. Petrice shivers, and pulls her robe a little tighter around her. 

Still drinking, Hawke eyes her up and down. “I’ve already seen your tits, you know.”

“Because you _snuck into my room_!”

Like some lowlife scoundrel. Which Hawke certainly is. She’s even admitted as much aloud. 

Hawke bares her teeth, red with wine. “And here you are. In _my_ house.”

Yes. Well. Petrice fumbles then, trying to remember her sermon and all the fire that went into it. She had things to say, yes she did, things so terrible and true that even someone like Hawke, a monster in all ways, might listen and _repent_. But nothing comes. The words have deserted her. Left her alone to face the horrible grin, and Hawke’s dancing eyes. 

“I _hate_ you,” Petrice spits. 

Hawke laughs, low and mean. “I know _that_. But don’t worry, sister. I’ll fuck you anyway.”

**

They do, in the end. Fuck. Petrice grabs at Hawke’s hair and slaps her, drawing blood and screaming into Hawke’s neck; Hawke’s hand is down Petrice’s robes, finding her wet and trembling and _angry_. These are hands that have killed and sinned and turned the world against the Maker’s word. These hands are on Petrice’s breasts, pinching, and then are on her in other ways. Pressing in. Petrice yells because she has nothing else. Her body throbs and betrays her. She bites Hawke and tears one of her earrings out by accident, tasting blood in her mouth. Petrice jerks back with a hiss, meaning to apologize, but Hawke only snarls, and puts fingers inside her. “Do that _again_ , sister.”

So Petrice slaps her, as hard as she can. 

Hawke’s laughter is going to haunt her dreams forever now. 

“Open your legs,” Hawke snarls, and shoves Petrice’s head into her cleavage. Hawke’s breasts have a thick line of freckles spreading across them. Petrice closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Hawke smells like sweat and blood and something else, something new, that Petrice is not going to call _sex_. Because this is not that. This is something angry. 

“Fuck you,” she hisses, grabbing at Hawke’s hair. 

“Virgin,” Hawke retorts. “ _Hit me again_.”

Just to be contrary, Petrice grabs onto Hawke’s hair and _pulls_ until the woman yowls, and does something with her hand that makes Petrice squeal like an animal. She feels too hot and her belly is throbbing. Hawke’s hands are on her. They are sinning. Hawke is grinning and then, quite suddenly, Hawke is kissing her. 

It is not gentle. It is crude and sharp, teeth and wine. Then Hawke flips them, putting Petrice down on her belly and – quite calmly – sitting on her. She runs a hand down Petrice’s back almost gently. “If you ask nicely,” Hawke says, ever so quietly, “I’ll fuck you in my bed. Where I’ll hold you down and make you _scream_. Then maybe I’ll give you names for all the things you want me to do to you.”

Petrice squirms, trying to move. “Get off me!”

Hawke is too fucking heavy. A beast of a woman. She can breathe, but barely. 

Hawke threads her fingers through Petrice’s hair. It would be so easy to smash Petrice’s head into the ground, she realizes suddenly. Hawke could do that. Hawke probably has done that before. It wouldn’t even give her pause. 

But Hawke does not kill her out in the courtyard. Hawke only squeezes the back of Petrice’s neck. It’s almost gentle. “I will. If you want. But I think you want to stay. I think you want to know what I know.”

Hawke leans in close, so her breath tickles the hair on Petrice’s neck. “Come upstairs. I’ll make you sing for your Maker, big sister. Or go run away. I don’t care which.”

Then she lets go, and stands up, leaving Petrice on the ground with her robes in disarray. 

**

Hawke sits on her wide bed, red sheets spread all around her. Petrice steps barefoot into the room, and closes the door slowly behind her. Carefully. Each step up those stairs was a slow one, where she thought again of her options and her duty, and the way that Hawke had smiled at her, with gold teeth and the red stain of wine on her lips. She had kicked her shoes off before reaching Hawke’s door. 

In a house like this, the master’s room was impossible to mistake. 

Hawke’s bed is surrounded by piles of books and knives. There is another basket for the mabari to sleep in, this one covered with even more jewels than the Petrice would think possible, though no mabari to be seen. And of course there is Hawke, naked on silk sheets, cleaning her nails with a small knife. 

“You should try taking your clothes off,” Hawke suggests, without looking up. She flicks the knife under her thumbnail, scraping dirt away. “Unless you're into that sort of that.”

 _That sort of thing_. What does that even mean? Probably something disgusting. 

Petrice looks away, hugging herself. 

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “Virgin.”

“What?”

“You are, aren’t you? All hot and bothered over that oath.” Hawke bares her teeth, admiring what must be her reflection in the knife blade. “Get over it. Even your precious Andraste did the nasty before she died. _Maaaany_ times, if I recall.”

“You are a terrible person,” Petrice spits at her. 

Hawke hums in agreement. “I’m a reaver. I’ve killed more people than I’ll ever fuck, and then I ate their bones. But I know how to make you sing, _Petrice_. So take off your fucking clothes.”

She flicks her hand, and the knife slams into the wall. Not anywhere near Petrice. But still. She shivers. And begins pulling her robes off, one layer at a time. Hawke watches her patiently, until finally they’re on equal footing with this, at least; neither of them wearing a damn thing but scars and skin. Hawke gestures with a hand, and Petrice climbs onto that big bed with her. She does this because she wants to, Petrice tells herself, and in that moment she does not think of the Maker. Perhaps she is tired, under the weight of everything that must be done. She wants something that is only hers. 

Perhaps this is why people have affairs. For the intimacy that comes out of creating a secret. 

Hawke touches her face, tracing the lines of her neck and then, almost cheekily, bopping her on the nose. Petrice sputters. The nerve! Hawke grins, all teeth and rumbling laughter. “I like you, big sister. I’m going to keep you.”

Petrice scowls. “You’ll do no such thing.”

Hawke gives Petrice’s breasts a squeeze, and only grins wider when Petrice slaps her. “Won’t I? But I did promise to fuck you properly. Come on, virgin sister, let’s have some fun.”

**

 _Fun_ involves breaking Hawke’s desk, setting the sheets on fire, and ends up leaving colorful bruises all across Petrice’s chest. There are details, hands on her, feelings in places she had almost forgotten, and Hawke’s laughter rumbling in her ear. Petrice wakes up in that wide bed, smelling burnt sheets, and rolls over to find Hawke trying on her robes.

They don’t fit at all. Hawke bares her teeth when she sees Patrice watching. “Do you think I’ll be struck down for this?”

It’s a lesser sin, Patrice thinks, compared to all the others. She props her head up on her chin, frowning. “Take that off. You’ll ruin it.”

“I fed you someone’s heart,” Hawke tells her calmly, and shrugs out of the robe. “Thought you should know.”

For a moment, Petrice just stares at her. “You…what?”

“Fed you. A heart.” Hawke drops the robes to stand naked in the room, stretching. “I felt like it.”

“A heart,” Petrice repeats, swallowing. She’s not awake enough to feel sick. Only vaguely worried, something going tense in her belly. “Whose heart?”

“Nobody you’d know.” Hawke turns to smile at her, hands rubbing her belly. “You really ought to ask what’s in someone’s strew, when they offer it. Because they might put something _horrible_ in the broth, and you’d never even know.”

Hawke steps closer, and kisses Patrice on the forehead. “Go back to your Maker, woman. This is _my_ city.”

Petrice closes her eyes tight. She does not want to think about this. She does not want to be here at all. “It is not your city.”

Hawke laughs at that, loud and shockingly cold. “Of course it is. I wanted it and so I took it. Just like I wanted you. But maybe you’ll run away now. That’s okay.”

It would probably be wise to slap her now, Petrice thinks. Hawke almost seems to be expecting it. 

Instead, Petrice pulls the burnt sheets up over her breasts. “The Maker doesn’t forgive you, Hawke.”

She sees Hawke pause, and then smile all the wider. “He won’t forgive either of us, Petrice. Isn’t that _wonderful_?”


End file.
